Lioness
by MagpieMinx
Summary: '"What may I do for you, sirs?" she asks, perfectly polite.  She is wiping her hands clean of red dye on a towel.  The stains remain on her hands like blood.'


"May I?" Altaïr asks, swinging down into the window. The girl is surprised, but she recovers quickly, nodding a breath before the guards come into earshot.

"Of course," she answers, wiping her hands on a towel. "Is there anything I can get you? Do you plan on staying? Or do you just need a place to stay until the commotion quiets down?" Altaïr steps inside her house, closing the shutters of the window behind him.

"I'll stay the night," he says, taking down his hood. The girl's cheeks color, but she strides out the door.

"I'll prepare something for you to eat and retrieve some blankets for the room then," she says briskly over her shoulder. Altaïr begins to remove his armor and weapons knowing that he is safe here. This woman works with the Bureau, sheltering Assassins when the guards are on high alert throughout the city. She makes a living as a cloth maker and has an irreproachable reputation. But she hid one Assassin, then another, and still yet another, and now the safety of her home and hospitality are legendary among them. She has Assassins dropping in at all times of day for respite from hunger, weariness, or even company. None of the men have ever bedded her, but she does bring them information of the day to day doings of the people in this quarter and occasionally snippets of conversation that she has heard from Templars. There is a rumor that she sells cloth to the tailor of Robert De Sable, but it is of no matter if it is true. She has already proved herself a friend to the Assassins time and again. Curiously, the girl is not intimidated by the deadly men who spend time in her home. She welcomes them instead, inviting them to make themselves at home in her personal sanctuary.

"Fruit, bread, meat, and some cheese," she says, setting a tray down on a table beside the bed. Altaïr watches her with piercing eyes as he removes his outer robes. Clutched between her elbow and ribcage are the blankets with which she will make the bed. A blink after the tray has been left on the table, she has whirled the first blanket out and smoothed it over the straw mattress. It is followed by another blanket and finally, she sets a pillow at the head of it.

"Do you require anything else?" she asks, turning to look at Altaïr who has picked up a strip of dried meat and ripped a piece off with his teeth.

"No," he replies, "How much do I need to pay you?" She detests the question, he knows, but that is why he asks it. He has stayed here often enough to know the price, but still he continues to ask to see the frustrated expression on her face, the half-glaring eyes that shimmer in the light. She brushes back some of her hair.

"I won't answer that question again, you know the price," she huffs, and he can't suppress the smirk. He finishes chewing and swallows.

"Yes, I know," he answers arrogantly. They stand there staring at each other, an awkward, tension-filled silence between them. Altaïr breaks it by stepping forward swiftly and brushing his lips against hers. She steps back a heartbeat too late, and her cheeks turn pink. In a flurry of loose dark hair, she turns.

"You can leave the fare on the table in the morning," she says, walking out. Altaïr sighs lightly, but watches her go with an almost-smile on his face. She may be unafraid, but she is not unshakeable. It is no secret that she finds him attractive. He is one of the few who frequent the place more regularly, roughly once a week. He is also one of the few who trusts her enough to take his hood down as soon as he is inside. Always he sees her blush, always he asks what her price is and tries to kiss her. Always, she puts meat, cheese, bread, and fruit on his tray. She does not do so for others. She will provide bread, meat, and fruit on the tray, but she has a liking for cheese and guards it jealously. Altaïr knows this because he came late in the night once and stole into her pantry. She had awoken thirsty. She had entered the kitchen and had some water, but ran into him on his way out of the pantry with a chunk of cheese in one hand. She had shrieked fit to wake the dead and fought him for it, nearly clawing one of his eyes out. There had been some relatively deep scratches on his cheek for weeks, but they had healed without incident though his pride had been wounded with the many comments thrown his way about "his woman."

He walks out of the room and descends the ladder silently, heading for her work room. He looks inside to see what she is doing before strolling in at his leisure. She is surrounded by bright colors, deep and vibrant reds, golden yellows, brilliant whites, true blues and greens. The colors dazzle the eyes. She is folding up the lengths of cloth that have dried during the day after pulling them from her vats of dye. She has left the white for last, bleached to unnatural brilliance, and she sighs as she folds it over her arms and then stands there motionless, staring sightlessly out the open door at the vats in the small corner she has claimed for them. Altaïr comes up behind her, close enough to touch her, his chest nearly against her back, but refrains from doing so, carefully keeping himself separate. She sighs, and her gaze drops to the ground. Altaïr inhales the soft scent of the oil in her hair and feels calmer than he has since the last time he did this a week ago. He dares to twine his fingers loosely around one lock for the first time, his heart beating just a little faster at the silken feel of it. He wonders briefly why she still lives alone, this girl, almost a woman, with a kind and generous heart. She is a good worker and is skilled at her trade and has a pretty enough face, though she is curiously marked by a permanent pallor. She has no known family though, and perhaps the lack of a dowry prevents her from marrying. She turns abruptly and runs into him, nearly dropping the cloth as she yelps in surprise.

"You scared me!" she scolds, sounding like a mother, "Please don't sneak up on me like that! You'll be the death of me if you do." She puts the white cloth away in a different cabinet than the rest of the bolts, and secreted in that cabinet is a length of vibrant, blood red cloth. It is impossible to tell what kind of fabric it is, but it shines like silk. She shuts the cabinet quickly and turns to face him.

"Shoo," she says, flapping her hands at him, "I have things to do." He smiles genuinely, amused to think that she thinks that she can command him, yet he obeys and returns to his room. He can hear her bustling around on the first floor, closing doors as the twilight gathers outside. Not long after, he hears one door open and the sound of a broom moving across the floor. He sits on his bed and rests his back against the wall, slouching a little, and closes his eyes to the rhythmic sound of her sweeping. After a while, it stops and the door is shut again. By now, it is dusk, but not yet night. It is the new moon and there is little light on the shutters from outside, but he leaves them shut. Seconds later, he hears her coming up the ladder and then she enters the room with a candle.

"I thought you might like to have some light," she said, "Especially since I know that you won't open the shutters. Would you like something to eat?" She sets the candle on the empty tray and watches him, her eyes large and glittering in the near darkness of the room. He sits up straight and motions her to come closer. She obeys without question, the hem of her loose skirt drifting across the floor with her movement. She stops roughly an arm's length away from him, and he motions her closer again. She stops when their knees are almost, but not quite, touching. She looks down at him curiously, and he takes her hand, caressing the back of it softly with his thumb. She is holding her breath, he knows, because he never heard her exhale after the soft, sharp inhalation when he took her hand in his. He looks up into her eyes, and she feels hypnotized by the heated darkness there. He tugs nearly imperceptibly on her hand and she bends gracefully, mesmerized, her breath coming just a little faster. When she is nose to nose with him, he presses his lips against hers, closing his eyes so that he can concentrate on the feeling. His other hand, the one with the missing finger, he places gently under her jaw and pulls her closer, putting more pressure into the simple kiss. She pulls away and he allows her to, but her eyes open slowly and they burn with fire and intensity as they stare into the dark abyss of his own. Her breath slides over his lips and he cannot help but lick them as if he could catch the fresh, warm taste of her on her exhalation.

"Altaïr," he whispers.

"Altaïr," she repeats softly, "It's an unusual name." He does not respond.

"Kefira," she murmurs finally, and then he knows that she is putting herself in his hands. She pulls away from his hands without explanation, and kneels at his feet and begins to pull off first one boot, and then the other. She rises and then tugs the hem of his tunic over his head. He obliges, allowing her to bare the upper part of his body while she stands between his knees. She drops the tunic on the floor and runs her fingers through his short hair without staring at the scars. He is suddenly grateful for that as he does not want to spend half the night explaining them. She rubs his scalp lightly before she stoops to kiss him again, and he takes advantage of the position, pulling her closer. She runs her hands down the back of his neck and onto his shoulders, pushing gently. He swings his legs up onto the bed and lies back and she settles her weight astride his narrow hips. She looks down at him unfathomably for a moment while he busies himself with stripping her. Her eyelids slide closed and she leans into this touch. She is not at all busty. Her breasts are small, just large enough to fit in his palms.

He needs her urgently now, the sight of her fully unclothed body setting off roaring demands in the pit of his stomach. She seems to feel a similar kind of need because her hands are helping him push his pants down, freeing him. It takes her only a moment to position him before she sits down hard, slamming him into her depths. He might be drowning, but he cannot tell. The soft, wet heat of her is wrapped around him and she shudders exquisitely. He feels a trickle of moisture on his thigh that is too thin to be anything but blood.

"You were-" he asks, but she cuts him off with a nod. She is hiding the pain, keeping her expression carefully neutral, but as he carefully shifts his weight, she winces and bites her lip. He begins to move swiftly, pulling her down to him, taking care not to cause her any more pain that necessary. She is clinging to him now, her fingernails cutting into the skin on his shoulders. He turns them both over, moving slowly until she is on her back and he is above her while kicking his remaining clothing off. He kisses her softly, hands running down her body to her thighs so that he can wrap her legs around his waist. Every moment they both make causes her mouth to twist, but she stays resolutely silent, refusing to make a single noise. Her hair is splayed across the pillow and the blankets. He winds his fingers in her hair and tugs gently, pulling her head back so that he can kiss her exposed neck. Her breath hitches in pleasure instead of pain and a strangle moan escapes from deep in her throat. He shifts again, testing, not wanting to hurt her. She winces in response.

"Keep going," she grits out from between her teeth, "Don't worry about it."

"No," he says, his voice low.

"Do it!" she snarls, and reluctantly, he obeys. At some point, he is aware that her pained silence becomes keening pleasure and he lets go, his movements no longer as controlled as he drives himself, and her, to the edge of consciousness. When it is over and they are no longer an unaware god and goddess and are merely a young man and a girl-no-more, tangled together in an embrace that is sanctioned by neither the Christian or Hebrew Gods nor Allah, they are quiet. He moves to get his weight off of her, but she pulls just hard enough to keep him there. Her breath is a little short, but it is calm and steady. She reaches up to press a soft kiss beneath his chin and he bows his head to press his temple to hers, their cheeks brushing. She sighs softly, and he can hear the regret pervading it and feels guilt spreading through him. He cannot stay with her and he will not take her Masyaf, but still he cares about her. It is something he cannot hide even from himself. Yet, she says nothing. After a short while, her breathing deepens and she slips into sleep. He rolls off her, tucking her smaller body into his side so that he can wrap his arms around her and pretend that he will not be leaving in the morning. It has been so long since he allowed himself to pretend like this, but he cannot help that he does not wish to leave once the light comes. He sleeps, and the light grows and beats against the shutters.

* * *

When he awakes, she is not there, but a tray of fruit and bread is sitting on the table. He can hear her humming to herself as she goes about her morning chores, seemingly unfazed by the night before. He hears her open a cabinet in her workroom, and then come directly toward the ladder. He dresses quickly. She sweeps in gracefully while he pulls on his robes, carrying the two bolts of cloth from the other cabinet yesterday.

"Good morning," she says cheerfully, opening the shutters. He begins to buckle on his weapons and she lays the two folded fabrics on the bed.

"Take these to the tailor who fashions your robes," she instructs, indicating the lengths of cloth. They are a blinding, salt white and a deep and vibrant bleeding red, much more striking than his current, much dirtied robe.

"The best linen that I can make, light but thick, and the finest silk I could buy. I think they'll serve you well," she continues, smiling. Suddenly, a blush comes over her cheeks and she turns away.

"Thank you, Kefira," Altaïr murmurs, just loud enough for her to hear. Her flush becomes deeper, her cheeks turning bright pink, soft as a pink flower's petals.

"You're welcome," she whispers. She's frozen in place as if she cannot move, and he steps up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and pressing his cheek against her temple, mimicking what he did last night. She tilts and turns her head, pressing her cheek to his jaw, reveling in the feel of his solidarity. They pull apart at the same time, and she vanishes out the door. Altaïr finishes equipping himself and tucks the piece of fruit and hunk of bread into his sash for safekeeping. Carrying the two bolts of cloth wrapped in one of the blankets off of the bed, he vanishes in his turn, out through the window.

* * *

It has been two and a half weeks since he last saw her. He has had a new robe and sash fashioned from the cloth and is on his way specifically to visit her and show her. The linen is wonderfully made, what he would expect from her, and the silk is of excellent quality. He walks swiftly and with purpose through the streets, noticeable in that he is an exceptionally well built man, hooded and wearing white and scarlet, an unusual set of colors, but he seems common and disappears from the mind quickly. He can just spot her front door when he sees a pack of guards stroll up and bang on it with heavy fists. Kefira appears in the door, opening it and looks surprised to see the soldiers.

"What may I do for you, sirs?" she asks, perfectly polite. She is wiping her hands clean of red dye on a towel. The stains remain on her hands like blood.

"You are under arrest for aiding an Assassin, do not resist girl," the leader whose Templar cross is a little more decorative than the others says gruffly. Kefira's jaw drops.

"Surely you must be joking, sir," she protests, lying perfectly, "I am but a simple weaver and cloth-maker."

"We have a witness who says that a man, hooded and dressed in white, left your home early this morning," the guard says, his voice even rougher as well as deeper than before. Altaïr wonders who the assassin was and aches with the desire to kidnap her from right under the guard's nose, but he cannot do so without endangering himself and her. '_She is in more danger now_,' his mind whispers. He is paralyzed where he stands, unable to move or breathe. He can only hope that she can talk her way out of this, perhaps bribe her way out.

"Produce this witness, or I will have to believe that I have enemies among my neighbors," she says proudly, confident in her lie of innocence.

"You're under arrest," the guard repeats, "The witness doesn't matter." He seizes her arm and she flings the towel in his face. He staggers back, ripping the dye-spotted cloth off his helmet.

"Do not touch me!" she says coldly, drawing herself up to her full height and glaring at them, her eyes flashing. She looks absolutely regal in the afternoon sun, posture more erect and commanding than a queen's.

"Cooperate, woman," the guard growls, using one heavy, armored hand to shove her. She stumbles, but recovers quickly by pushing off the wall of her home, stepping right into the man's reach by accident. His hand closes on her throat and he pins her to the wall. She struggles and Altaïr watches, horror roiling in his stomach. Her eyes dart around, looking at the people in the street, and then her eyes stop and lock on Altaïr's. Even while she struggles, she realizes that if he were to help her, he would simply draw attention to himself. She wills her thoughts at him.

'_I love you_.'

'_I know_.'

Altaïr channels the full force of his tender feelings into that one look and for one moment, they are looking at each other and there is no one else and they are saying the things they would never dare say otherwise. She tears her eyes away and begins to kick and shriek, using the full force of her voice which is more powerful than one would ever expect.

"Curse you Templars!" she screams to the heavens, and it is filled with a heart-stopping ferocity. "Yes, I aided an Assassin, I have been aiding them for the past three years! They showed me more kindness that I have ever received from any Templar! May God curse Robert de Sable and all his men!" The guards are alarmed at first, but then seek any possible way to shut her up. She continues in this vein, even though they hurt her, still shrieking even while they hit her. Finally, their leader slaps her with his heavy, iron-armored hand much too hard and there is a terrifying crack as her head twists and her neck breaks. There is silence, and then people are murmuring in shock and leaving the area quickly. Altaïr tastes bile on his tongue and flees for the rooftops. He pants, shocked and feels his heart breaking, or tearing itself out of his chest, he is not sure which.

* * *

It has been hours. The moon is out, full and bright, oblivious to the limp and broken body in the street next to an open door and a plundered house. Altaïr drops down from the roof next to the body, and cradling it close to his chest, takes it inside the house. He takes her past her kitchen and workroom and lets her body hang over his shoulder while takes her up the ladder. He steps into the room where they spent that night and lays her gently on the bed. The moonlight pours through the open window like intangible liquid silver as he adjusts the position of her head. He feels numb and has no strength to cry or rage. The guard is already dead, bleeding in the street under the same moon. Besides some provisions or some lengths of cloth, there is nothing he can take in memory of her sacrifice. Feeling as if he is no longer in control of his body, he leans down to kiss her lips one last time. He stands and mechanically climbs out the window, closing the shutters behind him as best as he is able. He takes flight over the rooftops, moving fast, steeling himself, closing the shutters of memory on Kefira.


End file.
